


Mine

by naiad (iamnaiad)



Category: Take That
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-15
Updated: 2010-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-06 07:33:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamnaiad/pseuds/naiad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark watches Rob strut across the stage, teasing the audience – one hundred and twenty thousand puppets dancing on a string.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mine

Mark watches Rob strut across the stage, teasing the audience – one hundred and twenty thousand puppets dancing on a string. They would do anything for him. In nothing but jeans and a shirt, he has them completely. There's no chance of them turning now; never was, really. Rob's personality just reaches out and grabs hold.

Mark watches Rob and remembers what it was like. These days Mark's lucky if he performs at all. If he does it's in intimate venues with a limited crowd capacity. Before, though – before it all turned to shit, there were five puppet masters. Five of them singing as if their lives depended on it, and four of them dancing as hard as they could. Poor Gaz just wasn't built for dancing, not that it mattered, he was the voice, the musical genius.

The crowd roars and Mark feels it in his toes. He misses it sometimes. Not the the songs or the choreography, because if he's honest, some of it was rubbish, but the energy – the insane, goosebump energy that felt like it would burst straight through his skin. Together they had been amazing. Mark used to imagine it was like a ball, the energy that bounced between them, growing bigger and stronger every time. On really crazy nights, the ball would be thrown from them to the audience and back again – each of them feeding it until it was bigger than them all. There were times he'd been so consumed by it that he'd thought to touch the ball before remembering it wasn't real.

Those are the nights he still misses. Adrenalin carried them offstage higher than any pill. Pulses racing and sweat dripping, Mark would flick his hair, trying to spray whoever happened to be closest. It was an invitation and they'd jump all over each other, laughing until Rob grabbed Mark's hand and pulled him away.

Mark feels the smile on his face and lets the back of his fingers drift along his neck.

The two of them would hold hands and run as fast as they could, laughing and gasping for breath, until they found somewhere secluded and dark. The moment they stopped, Rob would push Mark against the wall and lick a trail up his neck. It made Mark giggle, but he always shut up when Rob began to suckle and nip instead. One hand holding Mark firm, Rob would focus on his neck with complete devotion until Mark's trousers were open and Rob was dropping to his knees.

It was an obscene image, still is – Rob on his knees, running both hands the length of Mark's thighs and chest in a pose that would have screamed worship had Mark not been in front of him, naked from the waist down.

In the background there would have been the hum of people moving about, dismantling the stage, on their way to meet the band, but Mark only remembers the sound of their breathing and the way Rob would look at him, eyes dark and intense, before pushing at Mark's hips and leaning in to suck his dick.

Mark shifts with the memory. Rob is still controlling the audience, promising sex and building thousands of day dreams. Promises are fine for some, but Mark has always been greedy. He's had more. He wants more.

Rob teased Mark mercilessly. He'd use everything he could, tongue, lips, fingers and even teeth, until Mark's legs were trembling and the only things keeping him upright were Rob's hands. Later, there would be bruises. Fingers probing on the inside and Rob's mouth on the outside, it was all Mark could do not to come as he was brought to the brink repeatedly – tortured before being turned to face the wall. Strong hands pressing into his cheeks, kneading gently, and Rob's tongue would start anew. It was wet and delicious, even with his face pressed into cold brick.

Holding Mark up still, Rob would steal sensation and warmth, leaving Mark with nothing but the ghost of touch; anticipation pooling at the base of his spine as he listened to the soft rustle of Rob standing and dropping his pants. Mark had been patient, keeping himself motionless as his muscles twitched and flexed in memory, waiting until Rob slid inside.

A pause, a kiss at the base of Mark's neck and then frenzied rhythm. It was never slow or sensual – it was a way to stay high and come down, there was no need to be gentle.

Fingers linked where their hands pushed against the wall, they'd moved together - Rob's breath nothing but short huffs on Mark's skin. Sometimes Rob tried to speak. Mark knew what he was saying, even though it only ever sounded like shallow grunts. He knew, because when it was over and they were slumped on the wall and each other, Rob would say it again. His head resting on Mark's slick shoulder, he would wait for his breathing to even out, then give a playful nip and whisper, "Mine."

"Yours," was the response. Always.

Mark turns his head from the show as a hand claps his shoulder.

"One minute, mate."

"Right. Ta."

It finished before Rob left them. Drugs, music, sex, and arguments about everything drove them apart. In the end they were barely speaking, caught in a web of anger and spite that stretched beyond them into the rest of the band and management.

Time softened the pain and the pleasure, but Mark remembers, regrets. When Rob called a fortnight before and asked if he would come, if he would sing, the shock of it had been stunning. It only took seconds to say yes. Mark has another chance. He is going to push forward and risk nothing.

Rob's voice is just a buzz in Mark's ears. He's talking, not singing and the hand pushing at Mark's back makes him realise he's been introduced.

The crowd screams. Mark stumbles the first step, then rights himself and walks across the stage to where Rob is standing with his arms stretched out after a sweeping gesture and a grin that calls Mark like a siren.

Mark feels as if he is in a bubble, nothing is real; he's only imagining that this is happening. When he reaches Rob, the bubble is burst by warm arms wrapping around him and everything sounds louder and sharper. He lifts the mic that was given to him and speaks to the crowd.

"All right, Knebworth?"

They shout back at him. The words are indecipherable, but the joy is clear. Mark smiles as the music begins and he and Rob sing together publicly for the first time in years.

When it's over, he's locked in Rob's arms again. Head tucked against Rob's neck, smelling a sweet mixture of cologne and sweat, Mark picks his moment. He squeezes, lifts his mouth to Rob's ear and says, "Mine."

Rob's surprise is evident, his whole body tensing and pausing. Mark tries not to feel nauseous. He chose the wrong time, it's too soon for anything but mates. Pulling back, Mark tries to move away. Rob's arms hold firm and Mark resigns himself to being let down gently. Through the sound of the crowd he hears, "Yours."

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written before Take That reformed, circa Robbie's Knebworth concert.


End file.
